Hacker Chronicles 2/HACKER2.BIN/500.SSN-9301.C7

Text File | 1993-03-28 | 20KB | 359 lines

                          Coming of Age

                                                 by Tracey R Rich
                                                     October 1988

     It was early winter.  The crimson glow of Gault's second moon
lit the garden in front of the Duncan house.  The chill of the
near-frozen ground crept up into Worf's bare feet, but he hardly
felt it.  He felt preternaturally aware of everything around him:
the chirping of insects, the rustling of the branches, the first
flakes of snow falling on his face.  For the first time in years,
he felt whole, at peace with himself.  He took a deep breath and
felt the winter air sting his lungs, cool and bracing.
     Worf slipped silently across his foster family's front yard,
trying not to wake anyone.  The front door slid open with a
pneumatic hiss that sounded entirely too loud.  He cursed silently,
hoping that no one had heard the door.  They had not.  He stepped
inside.  Again, the door's closing hiss was impossibly loud, but
amazingly, no one was wakened by it.
     Worf padded softly into the bathroom.  He glanced approvingly
at his reflection in the mirror.  At the age of 15 Earth years, he
had nearly finished growing, and was noticeably taller and broader
than his human schoolmates.  His thick black hair hung down to his
shoulders, Klingon-style, though Shandra, his foster mother, forced
him to wash and comb it as humans did.
     At the moment, Worf's hair was a tangled mess.  His clothes
were torn and blood-stained.  His body was covered with blood,
scratches and bruises.  Oddly, the image pleased him; it was a
proper Klingon appearance, wild and free.  But he knew his foster
family would not approve, so he began to clean himself.
     Worf removed and disposed of his ruined clothes and and put
on a robe that hung in the bathroom.  As he turned on the water,
it too seemed incredibly loud, but Worf now realized that it was
not as loud as he imagined.  He cleaned and bandaged his wounds
and tried to wash the blood off his face, arms and hands.
          Go get some water
          And wash this filthy witness from your hand . . .
          A little water clears us of this deed:
          How easy it is, then!
     Worf smiled slightly.  Ah, Lady MacBeth, how well you
understood . . .
     Worf knew the story of MacBeth; he had read it for Literature
class the previous semester.  The story by Earth's ancient Bard
spoke to a part of Worf long hidden behind a veneer of
civilization.  He had hung on every word of the play, amazed to
find that humans understood such things.  He had gone to class
atypically eager to participate in discussion.
     But when the teacher began to lecture, it became clear that
the MacBeths were the villains of the play.  Worf had tried to
explain their side of the story, but the other students merely
laughed at him.  Klingon savage, they had called him.  Barbarian.
What would they do when they found out about his midnight
excursion?
     They must never find out, Worf decided.  He swore never to
tell anyone; not even his foster-brother, Jeff.  Then Worf noticed
that he had been scrubbing too hard.  The skin was starting to peel
off his fingers.  He turned off the water and returned to his
bedroom.
     The bedroom door hissed open, but the noise no longer seemed
quite so loud.  Worf slipped silently into the room.
     "Where have you been, Brother?" a voice growled in Klingonese.
     Worf whirled to a defensive posture, startled by the
unexpected sound.  It was only Jeff.  Worf regained his composure
quickly and replied, "Bathroom."
     The light flicked on and Worf could see the skepticism on his
foster-brother's face.  "For an hour and a half?"
     "How do you know I've been gone that long?" Worf snapped
defensively.
     "Because, my dear brother, you snore like a dilithium burnout.
And after almost 10 years of sharing a room with you, I can't sleep
without the noise.  I've been tossing and turning since you left."
     Worf nodded, accepting the answer.  He crawled into bed.
     "Where have you been?" Jeff persisted.
     "I told you." Worf evaded, "Bathroom."
     "Be serious, Worf." Jeff said, switching to English because
Klingonese lacked an appropriate colloquialism, "What could you do
in the bathroom for . . . Oh!"  Jeff chuckled knowingly.
     Worf frowned, confused.
     "It's nothing to be ashamed of." Jeff noted, "I do it too,
sometimes."
     Worf's eyes widened in amazement.  "You do?"
     "Sure.  Everybody does.  I'm surprised you've never heard the
guys at school talk about it."
     "They don't speak to me very often." Worf pointed out.
     "True." Jeff agreed ruefully.  "Well, Dad'll be home on
furlough tomorrow night.  You should probably talk to him about
it."
     "I will." Worf promised.  He shook his head in disbelief.  "I
never imagined that humans would do such things . . ."
     Jeff laughed.  "Maybe we're not as different as you think."
     "Perhaps not."
     Jeff flicked off the light and the two foster brothers slept.

     The next morning, as Worf was eating breakfast with Jeff and
Shandra, they heard a chime at the door.  Shandra went to answer
it while the boys finished eating.
     "Mornin', Dr. Duncan." a man's voice said.  The boys
recognized the voice as that of Mote Andrews, a burly farmer who
owned the neighboring property.
     "Good morning, Mr. Andrews." Shandra replied, "What can I do
for you--Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
     "Thank you, ma'am.  I'd 'preciate it." Mote replied as he
followed her to the kitchen.  Shandra poured a cup of coffee.  "I'm
'fraid I cain't stay long." Mote continued as he sipped his coffee,
"I jest came by to tell you an' the boys to stay inside 'til we
tell y'all it's safe."
     Shandra frowned, concerned.  The boys looked up and listened
attentively as she asked, "Is something wrong?"
     "This mornin', Carlos Sicay found a kama wolf near his
property."  Kama wolves were the deadliest animals on the planet.
They lived in the mountains, but sometimes, in colder winters, they
came down in search of food.
     "But they almost never bother humans." Shandra pointed out,
"Why are you so worried about this one?"
     "We're not worried about the wolf." Mote clarified, "The
wolf's dead.  We're worried about what killed it."
     Shandra was stunned.  "I thought no animal could kill a kama
wolf." she whispered.
     "That's what we thought." Mote agreed, "But this one was dead,
and not by natural causes or phaser fire.  Somethin' mangled that
wolf.  Clawed it to death and then tore it limb from limb.  I ain't
never seen nothin' like it."
     Jeff whistled appreciation.  "What do you think could kill a
kama wolf?" he asked Worf.  Then Jeff noticed an odd expression on
Worf's face.  Realization hit him like a ton of bricks.  His
stomach churned and his eyes widened in horror.  "What have you
done?" he hissed urgently (in Klingonese, so Mote would not
understand).
     "You said it was normal!" Worf snapped defiantly in the same
language.
     "That's not what I was talking about!"
     "Then what?"
     "Oh, never mind!" Jeff whispered, "What are we going to do?"
     Worf considered.  "I must tell them what happened." he said
judiciously.
     "Are you crazy?" Jeff squeaked, grabbing his Klingon foster
brother by the arm.
     "They should not live in fear when there is no danger." Worf
replied reasonably, removing Jeff's arm.  "It's a matter of honor."
     The boys' conversation had grown loud enough to disturb the
adults.  "Is there a problem, boys?" Shandra asked sternly.
     "No problem." Jeff replied hastily.
     Worf grimaced at his foster brother.  "Mr. Andrews, you may
call off the search." he said, "There is no danger."
     Shandra laughed, walked over to Worf and put a hand on his
shoulder affectionately.  "Worf," she said, "I know you think
you're tough enough to handle just about anything, but this is out
of your league.  Somewhere in the woods is a creature that could
tear a kama wolf apart."
     "You don't understand, ma'am." Worf replied, "There is no
creature.  I killed the wolf."
     He said it simply, with neither pride nor embarassment.  It
took a moment before the meaning of his words registered.  When it
did, Shandra's face crumbled.  "Sweet Jesus." she whispered as she
dropped bonelessly into the nearest empty chair.
     Mote's reaction was considerably stronger.  "You dirty Klingon
devil." he spat.  Worf bridled at the epithet, but said nothing.
"I told y'all a decade ago, bringin' that barbarian among civilized
people would cause nothin' but trouble.  But you wouldn't listen.
And now he's turned on us."
     Though Shandra was still shocked by Worf's admission, Mote's
comment brought her maternal instincts to the fore.  "He hasn't
turned on anyone." she snapped, "He killed a kama wolf.  So what?
If he hadn't, you probably would have killed it yourself."
     "I'd've done a neater job of it." Mote said pointedly, "Unlike
your savage foster son, I don't enjoy tearin' animals apart."
     "I'm sure he didn't enjoy it." Shandra replied, "Worf, tell
him--"  She looked around.  "Worf?"  He was gone.

     Worf ran through the woods miles north of his foster family's
property.  He had been running for hours with no destination in
mind.  There was nowhere to go.
     He sat down under a tree, exhausted.  He desparately wanted
to talk to his parents, but they were long dead.  He tried to call
their faces into his memory, hoping for at least an illusion of
support.  In his mind, he caught fleeting glimpses of a man who
looked much like himself, but older and bearded.  Was that his
father?  Or was Worf imagining it?  He remembered a woman scooping
him into her arms as she ran for cover, the sound of klaxons, the
roof falling in, and pain like fire as his ribs cracked under the
weight of the ceiling and his mother's dead body.  But he could not
hold the images in his mind long enough to derive any support from
them.
     Nor could he derive support from the humans.  Memories burned
in his mind: Mote Andrews cursing him; Shandra, shocked and
disgusted; Jeff horrified.  The last one hurt the most.
     To Worf, Shandra was always "ma'am," never "mother" or even
"foster mother."  Clearly, she loved Worf in that odd, human way,
and he felt a strong filial attachment to her.  But the term
"mother" conjured up different images in Worf's mind.  Similarly,
Sonny, Worf's foster father, would always be "sir," not "father."
But Jeff was different.  Jeff had always been "brother," and
sometimes "dear brother."
     When other children ignored Worf, Jeff had always been there.
When no one else understood, Jeff did.  Jeff had learned the
Klingon language and cluture.  He had always unfailingly supported
his Klingon foster brother at home and at school.  When other
children teased Worf (turtle-head was the very least of their
insults), Jeff stopped them.  And when classmates provoked Worf to
violence, Jeff physically interposed to keep his foster brother out
of trouble.
     Worf remembered seeing Jeff the previous night, lying in bed,
laughing and saying, "Maybe we're not as different as you think."
Then the image shattered, revealing Jeff's horror-stricken face as
he hissed, "What have you done?"  Worf had lost his strongest
source of support among the humans.  He had nothing left.
     Never trust, Worf thought.  Never rely.  If you remember that,
you cannot be hurt.  But he had failed; he had trusted.  And now,
he hurt.  He was alone, trapped among people who could not
understand him.  The nearest Klingons were light years away, and
they undoubtedly would not help a tribeless orphan raised by
humans.  He howled in loneliness and despair until he could howl
no more.
     The sun was starting to set.  He remembered a place where he
could go for solace.

     The Klingon battle cruiser slid smoothly across the night sky,
a huge photon torpedo shooting out, headed for the Romulan outpost.
Soon, the Romulans would be destroyed.  After all these years,
Worf's parents would be avenged.
     "You know, when I was a kid, we used to call that
constellation 'The Spoon.'" Sonny Duncan remarked, "But I suppose
if you think of those two lower stars as engine nacelles, it does
look a bit like a Klingon battle cruiser.  Of course, the planet
Theseus is an awfully disproportionate photon torpedo."
     Worf did not respond.  He sat silently on the bluff, staring
up at the stars, wishing he were elsewhere, wishing he had died
with his parents a decade before.
     "Jeff told me you might be here." Sonny continued, "He said
you come here sometimes when you feel like you don't belong."  Worf
still did not speak.  "Have you been here all day?" Sonny asked.
Silence.  "Your mother's been worried about you."
     "She's not my mother!" Worf snarled, "And you're not my
father.  My parents died 10 years ago, light years away, and you
will never replace them!"
     That stung.  Sonny knew that he could not replace Worf's
father.  Nevertheless, he felt a strong, fatherly affection for
the young Klingon.  In some ways, he felt closer to Worf than he
did to his own son.
     Worf realized that his remark was unnecessarily cruel.  "I'm
sorry, sir." he apologized.
     Sonny nodded acknowledgement.  "You're just upset and lashing
out at anything that gets in your way." he noted, "I do the same
thing myself."  They were silent again.  "Do you want to talk?"
     "You wouldn't understand."
     "You're probably right." Sonny admitted, "But I can try."
Worf said nothing.  "What happened, Worf?"
     Worf sighed.  Perhaps Sonny would understand.  Sonny was a
warrior (at least, as much of a warrior as any Starfleet officer
could be).  Sonny had always been patient and sympathetic.  Worf
tried to explain.  "It started about a year ago." he began softly,
"I woke in the middle of the night, and I couldn't get back to
sleep.  My mind raced, my heart pounded, and my blood tingled all
over my body.  And I was thirsty.  So thirsty . . ."  His voice
trailed off.  As he described the sensations, he felt them again
and shivered.  He fought to control it, and was marginally
successful.
     "Eventually, I went back to sleep." Worf continued, "But it
happened again, other nights.  Lately, it's happened almost every
night.  My heart pounds so loud, I'm afraid it'll wake Jeff.  And
the blood rushes in my ears like a river flowing."  His voice
became shaky and tense and his eyes glowed with an inhuman fire.
     "Last night, the walls seemed to close in on me.  I had to
get outside.  I didn't even take time to put on shoes.  As soon as
I was outside, I knew it was right.  My whole body seemed to sing
for joy.  I ran as far and as fast as I could."
     "And then you found the wolf?" Sonny prompted.
     Worf nodded and swallowed heavily.  "I saw it and froze.  We
stared into each other's eyes, predator to predator.  I don't
remember how long we stood there; it seemed like an eternity.
Suddenly, I knew what I had to do to silence the roaring in my
blood.  I killed it."
     Sonny's paternal protectiveness overcame his disgust.  "You
fool." he snapped, "It could have killed you."
     "It tried." Worf replied, rolling up a sleeve to display some
of his wounds, "But it could not.  I was superior."  The pride in
his voice was evident.
     They were both silent for a long moment.  Sonny was, frankly,
nauseated by the idea of his foster son's bloodlust.  But Worf had
learned to control his instincts before; he could learn to control
this too.
     "You all must hate me for this." Worf asserted.
     "I don't 'hate' you, Worf." Sonny replied.  "I'm not pleased,
of course.  But I don't hate you."
     "And Jeff?"
     Sonny laughed.  "Shandra tells me he was bothered at first.
But by the time I got home, he was bragging that his foster brother
saved Mr. Sicay's flock from a kama wolf."
     The pain in Worf's chest eased slightly.  "What about the
other colonists."
     Sonny sighed heavily.  "Rumors are spreading like wildfire."
he noted, "They're very upset about the whole thing.  Many of them
never trusted you, you know.  Still, they know how dangerous kama
wolves are, so I think they'll forgive you.  This time.  But this
can never happen again.  Understand?"
     Worf stared at his foster father in disbelief.  "You're the
one who doesn't understand." he snapped, "I'm not like you.  I'm
not human.  I'm a Klingon, a warrior, a hunter.  For the first time
in my life, I understand what that means.  I don't regret what I
did.  For the first time in my life, I was truly alive!  This is
what I was created for!  And you tell me, this must not happen
again.  How can you say that?  How can you deny me the right to be
what I truly am?"
     Sonny gaped at his foster son.  He had not expected this
reaction.  Somehow, he had expected Worf to feel remorse or
disgust, not pride.  Sonny had heard stories of people who raised
wild animals as pets.  When the animals reached maturity, they had
to be released in the wild.  Their instincts took over, and they
were no longer safe to keep in the home.  Was this happening to
Worf?
     Impossible.  Worf was no animal.  He was not human, but he
was an intelligent being.  Surely, Klingons didn't go running out
in the middle of the night slaughtering animals.  Did they?
     "Worf," Sonny said carefully, "Is this normal for your
people?"
     Worf's body language indicated that he did not wish to answer,
but Sonny did not relent.  "I don't know." Worf admitted finally,
"I haven't seen another Klingon since my parents died.  I was very
young then; there were many things I didn't know.  And I've
forgotten many things I did know."
     The age-old guilt struck Sonny anew.  He had never been sure
he had done the right thing, taking in a Klingon orphan.  At the
time, it seemed the only thing to do.  But now, he wondered.  "Do
you remember your mother?" Sonny asked.
     Worf sighed.  "I remember . . . the feel of her arms around
me on cold nights." Worf replied hesitantly, "I remember the smell
of her hair.  Sometimes, I can hear her voice."  He stopped for a
moment, as if listening for something that wasn't there.  "Mostly,
I remember the way I felt about her.  We were . . . a very close
family."  Sonny could hear Worf's voice breaking.  He thought he
saw tears in Worf's eyes.  But of course, that was physiologically
impossible.  Klingons couldn't cry.
     "Yes." Sonny whispered, "I'm sure your mother loved you very
much."  Sonny stood and paced silently for a while.  "I'm sure I've
told you this before: when I found you, there was also a Klingon
rescue team.  The leader of the team told me to leave you to die."
     "That is our way." Worf agreed.
     "Mm.  But when I found you, you were wrapped in your mother's
arms.  It looked as if she had used her body to protect you from
the roof falling in, as if she wanted you to survive at any cost."
     "That is the way I remember it." Worf whispered painfully.
     Sonny sighed.  "Sometimes I wonder if she would have wanted
this.  I wonder if I haven't done more harm than good by forcing
you to live in a society where you don't belong.  I wonder if your
mother is in some Klingon afterlife, cursing me for trying to make
her son human."
     They were silent again.  In the silence, Worf heard his
mother's voice.  Was she calling to him from the World Beyond?  Or
was it just a fragment of memory?  Or was he imagining it all?
Worf could not be certain.  "You are my son." Worf's mother told
him, "I care not what you do; I only require that you do it well."
Worf had found his answer.
     "You did the right thing." Worf told his foster father, "My
mother wanted me to live.  And she would want me to be the best
person I could be, in whatever society I lived in."  Sonny was
surprised by the certainty in Worf's voice.  "I will try to resist
the call of my blood, sir." Worf promised, "I can make no
guarantees, but I will do the best I can.  It is what my mother
would want."